


Cicatrix

by cuddlesome



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Aftercare, Banter, Blood, F/M, Force Bond (Star Wars), Knifeplay, Lightsabers (Star Wars), POV Alternating, S&M, Scarification, Sex, Size Difference
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-12 18:53:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29265330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuddlesome/pseuds/cuddlesome
Summary: Getting cut up by Rey on Starkiller awakens something in Kylo.
Relationships: Rey/Kylo Ren
Comments: 18
Kudos: 48
Collections: To Find Your Kiss: The Reylo Fanfiction Anthology's Valentine's Day Exchange





	Cicatrix

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Priestly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Priestly/gifts).



> Woooo it's another reylo anthology fic, baby, and for Valentine's Day, no less! Hope you enjoy it, Priestly. <3
> 
> Thank you to the people over at RFFA, as always, for putting this event on.

Just a few centimeters deeper and his grandfather’s saber would have claimed Kylo’s eye. A little to the right and the proud, if crooked, line of his nose would’ve been disrupted. But no, it’s just shallow enough, just off-center enough, that all she cuts up is skin and a bit of muscle but mostly his dignity.

After that last brutal swipe, he falls. He’d already fallen once before, when she kicked him hard in the gut, but this is different. There’s finality to it. The air leaves his lungs as he hits the snow. He’s not getting back up.

Everything seems larger from down on the ground; the sky, the trees, even her. He’d called her ‘girl;’ so had Snoke and Hux. It implies something young and diminutive. She’s every bit a woman as she stands over him, chest heaving, lips parted. Later, just before he sleeps, when he’s not in so much pain, he’ll think about the way that her legs were splayed, the way her filthy desert garb framed her crotch.

His grandfather’s lightsaber has its gentle hum interrupted with hissing and spitting with each snowflake that drifts down onto it, seeming more aggressive in that moment than his own. It lays beside him, just as defeated. She had managed to force it to deactivate. She might as well have cut off his dick.

Kylo lurches halfway up, breath huffing between his lips. All of the wounds on his body scream with pain, but the place where the saber raked over his face seems to hurt the most, even more than the dripping, oozing wound on his side. It’s not even the sort of pain he can use. The dark side can’t help him now.

Rey, for her part, seems at a loss. She’s still white-knuckling the saber, but she isn’t poised to kill. Funny how he can sense that after such a brief time interacting with her. Ironically funny, of course. There’s very little haha funny about the situation beyond how much she just handed his ass to him.

With a roar of breaking earth, the ground splits apart, opening the earth into a yawning chasm. Kylo almost wishes that he would fall into it. 

Rey stares at him a second longer. Then she runs. He wants to scream after her, but he doesn’t know what to say.

Come back? She wouldn’t do that even if there wasn’t a natural disaster at her feet (it’s unnatural, though, isn’t it? This whole planet has been turned into a mechanical nightmare. Maybe something internal would’ve exploded and destroyed it someday even without the rebels).

Why didn’t she just kill him? It would be less humiliating than being branded, marked. He’s hers now.

Soon enough she’s out of sight and the opportunity to make some last accusation or desperate plea leaves along with her. The pain and anger seem to dribble away. He’s left numb. Maybe it’s just the effect of the wet cold finally seeping in through his clothes and skin and into his overworked muscles.

Kylo lays back in the snow. It’s not in his nature to give up, but he’ll only rip himself open further if he tries to stagger to his feet. The Force assures him he’s not going to die that day and he trusts it even though he probably shouldn’t given its recent track record. It also told him she would join him. That it’s destiny. It sounds sticky-sweet in its romanticism, even in his own head.

But no. There wasn’t even a flicker of consideration in her eyes.

Does she think she’s too good for him? She, a nobody from a nowhere planet? The thought makes his blood run hot, but—

She’s probably right.

She’s definitely right.

All that aside, he lost. He can’t remember that ever happening before, not when training with the knights, not with his uncle’s pupils.

The ride back to the Finalizer is a humiliating affair. Kylo tries to keep his breathing under control as he bleeds out onto the transport’s clean floor and the boot of the stormtrooper next to him. She’s either too polite or too scared of him to move.

Being plunged into a bacta tank would be a waste of time, not to mention humiliating. Allowing his battered body, stripped of his robes and helmet, to be ogled by anyone, even the droids that would be attending him, is too much. So he gets more traditional, low-tech methods of treatment. The stitches make his skin and muscles feel tight.

His dream when he falls into a painkiller-driven sleep is a muddle of sensations more than a cohesive scene.

Rey biting him, Rey raking her fingernails down his skin, Rey burning him over and over again with a lightsaber, sometimes the one she wielded against him and sometimes his own. Her eyes are ink-dark. She's a tiny, vicious thing tearing into him, shallow enough that she won't spill his guts, not yet, but more than deep enough to leave marks. Warm, tacky blood seeps from the wounds that aren't cauterized. He feels hot and cold both at once; feverish. 

Every mark she makes is a reassertion that he belongs to her. He's felt like an object to be possessed before, by his uncle, by Snoke, but this is the first time that he is eager to accept it.

She's there. He can sense it. Beyond the rabid dream-Rey there's another presence. 

He cranes his neck to see her standing over him. She has her arms crossed tightly, squishing her little breasts together.

His hips twitch.

"You're disgusting," Rey, the real one, says.

The heavy heat in Kylo's belly lurches with pleasure. His blood starts to gush out the slightest bit faster as his heart rate increases. How much of these feelings are produced by the dream and how much is the analgesics, he can't say.

He wakes up covered in sweat and cum because of course he does.

He considers finding a stormtrooper to satisfy his needs. Not that they would probably do a good job. The last one, AN-0525, had hesitated when it came to hurting his superior officer even at Kylo's insistence. Like he thought that if he went too far he would have to deal with the business end of Kylo's lightsaber. That couldn't be further from the truth—as a matter of fact, Kylo just ended up frustrated that he didn't go further.

There are very particular types of pain that he doesn't like: those that involve electricity and blunt trauma. Anyone could probably guess why.

He never went as far as sex, either. Frankly, the faceless nobodies don't deserve it, and, well... he's a little shy. But if the stormtrooper had pointed that out he actually would have to deal with the business end of Kylo's lightsaber.

He wonders if one would tactfully avoid talking about his scar if he revealed it to them.

There are exercises that he needs to do to keep half of his face from stiffening up, creams he rubs into the scar tissue. He fights with himself about it some days. The routine-focused knight, ever-present in his brain, won’t let him forget he’s supposed to care for his body. Meanwhile, the bratty child that rules his heart doesn’t care enough to do it. If it doesn’t heal properly, if it looks ugly, it will stand out more. If it stands out more, he nor anyone else will be able to ignore it.

Kylo oscillates between vanity and self-loathing as a general rule. It’s not entirely unusual for him to stare at himself in the mirror. He finds himself doing it on whatever reflective surface he can find, though, trying to catch the surface of the scar in transparisteel and dishware and everything in-between.

He didn’t sustain any injuries so major until that day. No one ever got the chance to hurt him that badly. It’s like karma caught up to him all at once. He fingers the scar tissue that’s splayed in a starburst across his left flank. The puckered scars courtesy of lightsaber pokes and jabs and that long strike are different in texture from the blast burn. What would the sting of plasma or a laser be like in comparison? Rey could probably help him find out. She’d attack him with any weapon available.

In fact, what she ends up harming him next with is a simple knife, and it's by his own request.

* * *

The Force bond is tenuous, unreliable, bound to snap and leave both of them stranded and alone again at whatever time the universe sees fit. In some ways, Rey prefers it to seeing Kylo Ren in the flesh. When he disappears she can take whatever troubling thoughts she has about him, shove them into a box behind three blast doors in her mind, and never have to think about them again.

Thoughts about what it would be like to touch—pull—his hair, for example. And whether he always bites his lip or if it's a nervous habit around her specifically.

And, and... she needs to stop.

But she can't exactly compartmentalize right now, because he's here. On her ship. Or, more accurately, his father's ship. 

He acted tame to a suspicious degree when he turned himself over. Let her strip him of his lightsaber and all, though she couldn't exactly disarm the danger of him using the Force. But he didn't.

Then he told her what he wanted before she handed him over to the Resistance.

She'd suspected, of course, after walking through a dream of his with exactly these overtones, but... getting imprisoned and potentially executed by the Resistance for the sake of fulfilling a fantasy of her cutting him up? He's dedicated if nothing else.

She agreed. For reasons she doesn't fully understand nor want to examine.

It's something to do with the opportunity to hurt him, she knows that much. Never mind that it goes hand in hand with his pleasure.

She restrained him with his hands behind his back willingly enough. Then she ripped his top layers off with the knife because hell if she was embarrassing herself by taking him right back out of the restraints to do it the more traditional way. He looked good like that, anyway, with black cloth splayed around his pale torso in thick shreds.

Then it occurred to her she doesn't know if he sterilized the knife or not—not that it should matter if he gets an infection—so she left him squirming and half-hard to do it herself.

And now they're here, in the icy-cold cargo hold, with her straddling his thighs what she judges to be a safe distance from his crotch. The hand holding the knife is a little sweaty and she doesn't know how to proceed.

Kylo’s broad chest heaves under Rey’s hand. Her palm grazes one of his nipples. She tries to move it away from the scar but nowhere near the other side of his chest. She can already feel his heartbeat as it is, the unsettling reminder he has a heart to begin with even if he doesn't seem like it.

Rey blinks and tries to focus on her own hand instead of his body. She’s always had little hands.

...was he always big or if he had grown into a massive man after having a small stature in childhood..?

Focus.

She curls her fingers into a fist. They were good at getting some parts of scrap but not others. More than once she slipped and cut herself on something sharp and rusty and all of her haul from the past month had to go towards medical treatment.

At least there’s no danger of cutting herself on Kylo and probably no danger of disease. He looks clean, smells clean, even with the scent of nervous sweat mixing with boot polish and metal. She had taken a sonic shower just an hour before. Even so, she feels grimy, unkempt. It makes her all the more determined to overpower him, to assert that he's nowhere near being better than her. It's not hard to do when he's half-naked.

“What makes you think I won’t just stab you?” Rey asks, testing the edge of the knife with her thumb.

“I don’t know. Just a feeling.” His eyes look calm to an infuriating degree, bordering on bored.

He'd have it coming. He really would. But having a go at him when he's like this just wouldn't be right. And she knows that he knows she thinks that way.

She holds the blade up a little ways away from the scarred-over lightsaber wound on his right pectoral. She’s not particularly artistic. The most she’s written out are hashmarks to count the days stranded on Jakku. It feels appropriate to start with those. 

"I didn't take you for a masochist," she comments as she drags the tip of the knife down beneath his breastbone.

She means for it to be casual, quick, like it doesn't mean anything, but her hand slips and she cuts deeper than she intends. She fights down a gasp and almost apologizes. 

It's Kylo Ren. It's Kylo Ren! He's the one who should be apologizing, not her!

Kylo's expression is caught between a grin and a grimace. "I didn't take you for a sadist."

The next line is a little shallower and shorter. "I'm not."

"Mmhm," he hums, dubious.

"I'm not. I just like hurting you."

"You sure know how to make me feel special." He laughs, breathless, then bites his lip as she administers another cut.

The blood doesn't gush forward from the cuts all at once like it would from some species. Red pearls bead up along the cut, shiny and dark, then they break and ooze outward. Rey has an impulse to wipe it away from the first, largest wound and ends up with Kylo Ren's blood coating the wrap on her forearm. Again she has to stop herself from saying sorry, because she's not sorry. She's not.

He almost seems to like it, anyway. She can sense it. Rey brushes her fingers through the blood and smears it from its thicker, darker bubbles to pale smears across his chest. He really, really seems to like it when he pushes it into the divot of the lightsaber scar, letting it pool up. She traces it up his chest, to his cheek, to the tiny nick on his forehead. The red highlights it and almost makes it look like a new wound all over again, though it's nowhere near as gruesome and wide as the burn had been.

More rigid, cutting lines follow. She has limited medical knowledge and is wary of severing something important.The way his eyes roll back and his hands and jaw clench makes it hard to concentrate, though. He's incredibly aroused. She pointedly ignored his dick as much as she could up until then, but it's impossible not to notice the swell in his tight trousers and the way his hips twitch when she does something he particularly likes.

It's too much of a turn-on to keep ignoring.

So she ends up taking a break from cutting him to freeing his dick and from there taking her own pants off. She hovers over the tip of his dick suddenly aware of how she ignored her own arousal, too, slippery on her thighs. She's never done anything like this before, experience limited to porn she filched from star destroyers, but it feels so natural in the heat of the moment.

"Do you want to—?" She looks up at his unreadable expression. "Can I—?"

"Of course," he breathes.

Rey lowers herself down. Her hands slip in blood as she gropes for purchase on his chest. Once she's fully seated, she finds herself multitasking between the slip-slide of their genitals and the slip-slide of the knife and the blood. It's all sticky-hot and messy.

“Can you write?” Kylo asks suddenly as the blood flow starts to drip down his belly. 

Her first instinct is to snap that of course she can, but after a moment’s thought she begrudgingly admits to herself it’s a reasonable question. Most Jakkuvians are illiterate.

She lifts herself almost completely off of his dick. “I taught myself Basic.” 

All in the interest of reading flight manuals and journaling. She didn't have the time or the resources for much else.

"Would you..." Kylo dry-swallows as she takes his whole shaft back in. "...cut your name into me?"

She says the most colorful swear she knows.

"That's not a no."

"That's... incredibly bizarre."

He smirks. "Still not a no."

"Shut up."

"So you'll do it?"

She does, a little jaggedly because he thrusts his hips too hard towards the end. Rey sees stars as he slams into her cervix in a bit of pleasure-pain that makes her think she might understand why he likes being hurt, just a little.

Her name stands stark and mostly-alone on the left side of his chest, just over his heart, drooling blood. A mark, a brand.

But if he really wants her to mark him, there are other ways, less elaborate ways. She can just—

Rey bites down on his shoulder when he thrusts hard again. Kylo cums then and there, shuddering, and just feeling his body convulse is enough to send her over the edge.

She cleans him up after, rubbing a warm, soapy rag over the wounds, making his skin a flushed pink instead of the reddish-pink of smeared blood. The look in his eyes tells her he wasn't expecting it.

"What did you think I'd do?" Rey asks, scowling. "Leave you to bleed out?"

"The thought crossed my mind."

Some of the blood has dried up and gone flaky, which isn't quite as sexy as its liquid state, but it's satisfying to clean up. She puts a liberal amount of bacta over the cuts and bandages them.

Once she's finished, Rey leaves him, still-restrained and on the floor. Kylo straightens up when she returns. 

"Here. Drink this." She kneels and holds out a cup.

He looks suspicious. "What is it?"

"It's muja juice, not poison or whatever you're thinking." She takes a sip herself to prove it, then holds it out again. "It'll help your body replace your blood faster."

He still hesitates. "You don't have to do that."

She puts her hand over the bandage concealing where she cut her name. "You're mine, so I'm going to do whatever I want to you."

It's the right thing to say. His eyes gleam and he drinks without hesitation. She kisses him on the cheek, caressing the scar with her tongue, fancying she can still taste blood.


End file.
